


Google Told Me Your Name

by theparanoidwriter



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Bullying, F/M, Hallucinations, M/M, OC Character Death, Paranormal, Supernatural - Freeform, and hot writer Marco, apparently hot office worker Jean, connie on drugs, drug mention, evil technology shizz, hello kitty shaming, minor high school drama, possessed computers, sasha and connie are the wonder twins, shaming, teen bedwetting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-29
Updated: 2015-02-02
Packaged: 2018-02-27 09:18:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2687423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparanoidwriter/pseuds/theparanoidwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The news has followed a series of murders with victims that can only be connected in one way - they were all found dead by their computers; their most recent search history along the lines of "I know where you live", "I know what you did", "hello and goodbye".<br/>While there are countless people working on the case, no more information has been found.</p><p>Amidst these murders, Jean Kirschtein lives his life working his office job in hopes of rising to his dream career. When he stays up late typing a report for his boss and returns from a quick bathroom break, he finds a search on his computer screen, a search he never entered, and a search with results for a person he has never seen before.</p><p>That same night, Marco Bodt scored a chance to get his manuscript published and went home to feverishly finish it before his early deadline. A last minute search displays results for a search he never entered, leaving him confused as several links all connected to one unfamiliar man load.</p><p>Curiosity gets the best of both of them as they search for each other, only to find themselves in the midst of the search engine murder mysteries.</p><p>Title Idea by marras</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please check out the tabs to decide whether or not this will be okay for you to read. Granted, my descriptions could really use a lot more work (*sobbing*), but even if mentions or light reference to it might trigger you then I advise you skip this. I won't begrudge you for it!
> 
> So,um, here goes.
> 
> I was either very sleepy or sick when writing this and there's only so much that my lovely beta (GhostintheTimeMachine) can do.  
> Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy it!

 

She heard nothing but laughter. Squeaky laughter. Loud laughter, quiet laughter. Nothing but the hahaha’s and hehehe’s and hohoho’s and ahahah’s entering through one ear and never exiting out the other.

 

It wouldn’t stop, no matter how much she begged and pleaded, no matter how hard she clasped her hands over her ears--no matter what she did, the laughter snuck in and stayed there, amplified by her mind and by the horribly unfortunate structure of the buildings around them, bouncing off yet sticking in the small area.  
  


She grabbed her backpack off the floor, swung it over her shoulder, and ran through the narrow space between two of her tormentors.  
  
“Hey, sugar!”

“Dandelion!”

“Hey, wuss!”  
“Carole!”

 

She couldn’t hear them calling; only their laughter remained in her mind. Laughter so clear she saw it. The laughter took on a life and shape of its own, taking human forms, their forms, mocking, laughing--tears welled up in the corners of her eyes, torso tight from all of it, face red. She couldn’t tell what was redder - her face or the stop sign a few feet away.

 

She ran; each foot hit the ground with a “ha”, or a “hehe”.

 

Bwuahahahaha.

 

“Please…”

 

Picking up her speed did nothing. The soles of her feet were on fire. She swore that her shoes would burn off right then and there, and maybe they would burn a little more, the flames might stretch a little further, reach up and dance around her, wrap her in its warm, tender embrace. She closed her eyes and awaited the smell of ashes.

 

A cold slap to the face from a sudden breeze greeted her instead.

 

They weren’t going to spontaneously combust. They wouldn’t combust at all, and neither would she, though the heat in her cheeks had her convinced otherwise.

 

She slumped against a nearby building to catch her breath and looked both ways - they hadn’t followed her.

 

Good. She didn’t need them anyways. They were probably enjoying and spreading even more rumors about her to the popular kids. Whatever it took to be in the in crowd, right? That’s what they had wanted. What they all had wanted. But not like this, no, not like this.

 

They had made it through middle school. Horrible, terrible years that they had been, they had stuck it through all those years since kindergarten, only for them to betray her on the first day at Sina High School.

 

She made her way home, each step threatening to pull her down beneath the Earth’s core. She could feel the heat pooling just beneath her feet, or maybe that was just the betrayal stirring within her.

 

Carole opened her front door and poked her head inside. Nobody in the front room. She tried the kitchen, a small Post-it note stuck on the refrigerator door:

 

Carole,

 

Your father and I are out on Date Night. He won some tickets to the opera at a raffle at work. It’s tonight! Sorry about that, dinner is in the microwave. Ronald is at a friend’s.

 

XOXOXXO,

 

Mom

 

She turned towards the microwave door, opening it after several efforts to move her arm, the limb heavier and heavier with each growing second.

 

“No. Please, not that.”

 

Tired blue eyes looked at the plate of food. Normally, she would have been delighted that her mom went to the effort she did to make the meal, but this time it did nothing but make her sick to the gut.

 

The rice used to form Hello Kitty’s head, the seaweed bits used for her face and whiskers--the whole dish burned the image into her mind of the blanket upstairs which held an almost identical face.

 

Her kiddy blanket. Her blanket she had since she was four and should be rid of by now, ten years later, but she couldn’t bring herself to part with it. Neither could her bladder. The blanket still reeked of years of spillage. Yes, she, Carole Wren, still wet the bed (and her blankie!) at the age of fourteen. Her most heavily guarded secret that not even her parents knew, only four former ex-friends, and now possibly the whole of Sina High School.

 

With newfound energy, she skid out the kitchen, leaving the microwave open as she rushed upstairs to her brother’s room. She slid onto the computer chair, clicked on the desk lamp, and then waited for the computer to start up.

 

Look at nothing, listen to nothing, remember nothing.

Don’t think about them. Don’t listen to them. Don’t remember them.

Just look at the pretty blue screen. The pretty blue screen with the small flag in the middle. The pretty flag with the red blue, yellow and green.

The Windows logo.

 

The volume off, she didn’t hear the starting sound that accompanied the brightening of the screen. They didn’t have a log in password, so one click and she was in.

 

Her brother’s desktop wallpaper loaded - a picture of some pink haired magical girl type character and some other purple haired one making out. One of his lame animus, or whatever they were.

 

The cursor found its way to the small e icon on the desktop, and she sat back and waited for the page to load. Her hand had clicked without her needing to, relief for her body and mind which was flooded. She was unable even to tread water in the wave that had crashed over her, leaving her limbs numb and heavy. Oh, so heavy.

 

She needed a distraction, and what better distraction was there than the internet? Rather than the usual home page, the browser loaded the Google search page.

 

Huh. Okay. What to search? Umm...

 

Carole clicked the box to type. How-

 

The word backspaced.

 

‘What?’

 

Words spelled out in the search box before her eyes.

 

Good evening, Carole.

 

She sat back in her seat and blinked. She hadn’t typed that…She clicked the box, highlighted the words, and deleted them then replaced them with her own:

 

How do you know my name?

 

No time wasted, her own words deleted and replaced with a new message.

 

You don’t need to worry about that. I’m here for you, and that’s what matters.

 

Carole hugged her arms to her chest and gasped, goosebumps forming just beneath her fingertips.

 

What do you want? Who are you?

 

She turned in the chair; this had to be some prank of her brother’s. He must have set some software up to spook her and keep her from touching his computer. She didn’t find any cameras anywhere to capture this proud moment. Nothing looked out of place; the room was in its usual messy state.

 

‘They must be hidden somewhere real good.’ Whatever, she wouldn’t give him the reaction he was looking for.

 

The screen had a new message now.  
  
I told you. Don’t worry about me. I am here to help you, Carole.

 

She stiffened in her seat as another wave of cold air tickled her spine.

 

Help me with wha-

 

The program or whatever it was didn’t even let her finish.

 

Your friends, Carole. Ex friends. Not too great, are they? Sold you out. I think your blanket is cute.

 

What was this? How did this software know that? Ronald didn’t even know. Unless this was all part of those horrible bastards’ plan to rise to popularity.

 

Her eyebrows furrowed downward in a drop so sharp and sudden she swore if they were a person they’d have whiplash. Her lip curled upward, just barely meeting the bottom of her nose, teeth bared.

 

In the empty house, all she heard was her own heavy breath and the tick tick click of the keyboard, rage transferred and abusing the poor keys.

 

“Leave me alone! Haven’t you done enough already? I don’t want to talk to you. Any of you! This is harassment, I’m going to call the police.”  
  
She heard her words echo.

 

Then another voice rang out.

 

The keyboard came to life, keys tapping away as the message flashed letter by letter across the page.

 

No need to call anybody, Carole. I’m your friend. A real friend. Not those cruel children. I want to help you. I can help you get revenge. You'd like that wouldn't you? You just have to do what I tell you to.

 

Carole tossed to the left then jerked to the right.

 

Nothing but the cluttered room. No speakers anywhere. She faced the computer again; the speakers weren’t on. The computer couldn’t be on narrator. But she hadn’t looked closely enough.

 

Carole leaped out of the seat. Her hands skittered along the wall, searching for any sort of wires. She scooped up months worth of dirty laundry, tossing it aside. She scanned the floor. Nothing.

 

“Look at the wittle baby. Probably running off to go cry in her bed and cuddle her blankie.”  
“It doesn’t matter if she cries into it, it’s probably still soaked anyway.”  
“Enjoy your piss blanket!”  
  


She hadn’t caught them before, but now their words echoed in her mind amongst the laughter.

 

“Hey losers!” That had been the popular kids. Carole had tensed, eyes squeezed shut, ready for whatever they aimed to throw her way. She was prepared for taunts, slaps, shoves.

 

“You want to talk losers? Carole here still wets the bed.”  
“And her Hello Kitty blanket!”  
  


Her eyes had flashed open. That had caught her attention.

 

That had caught everybody’s attention. Everything had quickly gone downhill from there. The popular kids had asked questions, their tones changed, addressing her as if she were a baby.

 

They hadn’t expected that, but they poked and prodded. It had been a test. One her former friends had passed with flying colors.

 

‘But...why? Why would they just turn on me like that….?’

 

“My dear child. They have wronged you. Let me help you.”  
  
Carole clapped her hand over her left ear. She felt air, as if somebody had whispered the words in her ear.

 

“Who are you? What are you?”

 

Her gaze searched the floor and she found her brother’s baseball bat. Weapon in hands, she crouched forward, fingers fidgeting to loosen and tighten her grip.

 

Her words were met with no response.

 

She darted across the room; her hand flew to the phone. Her thumb came down hard, missing the buttons as her hand trembled.

 

8\. 2. 1.

No.

8.2.2.

9.1.1.

 

The phone dialed.

 

She pressed it to her ear and waited for the operator to pick up. A chill left a trail of goosebumps up her arms.

"91-"

 

The line went dead.

 

"Now Carole, that won't do. I'm only trying to help you."

 

She dialed the number again, bat still held in her right hand as she backed up towards the door.

 

The phone was dialing the number, connecting her to the help she needed. She bumped into something solid and let herself feel around. Something cold and round, the doorknob. Good.  She brought her left shoulder up to hold the phone in place while her hand reached for the doorknob.

 

"91-"

 

"45987 Hemming Way".

 

The line cut.

 

Carole wrapped her hand around the cold metal, twisting it to the left. It turned a few centimeters before it clicked. She jiggled it and tried turning it again.

 

It clicked again.

 

"I know your secrets."

 

All the colors in the room tore off; a ripping sound like duct tape being unrolled. They fell to the floor.

 

Spplrt!

 

Carole stepped back into the door, the metal pressed into her back.

 

The colors dragged across the floor, and then flung themselves up onto the desk where they merged with the computer screen.

 

"I know where you live."

 

She swung the bat hard right. It hit air then stuck.

 

"What?"

 

She grit her teeth, all energy put into moving the bat. Her shoulder muscles clenched and unclenched to no avail.

 

A few feet away, the blue light of the computer screen grew brighter. The only color in the room, it surged.

 

The bat vibrated in her grip.

 

WHRRRRRRRRR.

 

The computer and bat both started to vibrate and Carole couldn't take her hands off of it.

 

"L-leave me alone!"

 

The bat jerked and twisted in her hands like a cat struggling to be put down. Hisses filled the air. Snarls.

 

Carole jerked her shoulders, eyes wide and screamed.

 

The bat glowed bright white, sending heat up through it that danced onto her hand and up her arms.

 

"Help! Someone help!"

 

Her legs were heavy, anchored to the ground one moment. In the next they were light. She lifted her left leg then shrieked. Her toes melded into each other as a colorless liquid streaked down her leg. It splashed onto the floor, droplets at first then in streams. Her leg was melting.

 

"Heeeeeelp! Somebody!"

 

Her shrill cries scratched her throat as she froze in terror. A gentle voice in her ear.

 

"Hello."

 

Thnk!

 

She fell, her leg melted to the knee. She could see her right leg outstretched, but she couldn't feel it. Nothing but static from the hips down.

 

The flames danced up her shoulder and amongst the crackle of the flames, she swore she could hear hoarse laughter.

 

"Hello."

 

The voice wound itself around her, pressure squeezed her throat tight. She instinctively brought her hand up to her throat. The flames leapt onto her neck then shot up, glowing bright white as the fire seared her eyelids.

 

Carole trembled as the scent of burning flesh and the dead filled her nostrils. She made one last effort and crawled towards the computer. She reached out one hand to pull the plug.

 

Just. A. Little. Furth-

 

"Goodbye."

 

Carole threw herself towards the plug. Too hard. She hit the outlet and-

  
  


"She exploded! Scraped pieces of her off the wall for two hours. They found pieces of her tongue underneath the desk, and some brains on the lamp. Still some blood though it had started to get crusty by the time that the police got there."

 

The male with two toned hair cringed at the mental image that brought. "Man, Connie, what are you on?"

 

The other male stopped walking and turned towards his friend. "Nothing right now." Connie scowled at the disbelieving look he got. "It's the truth! My mom heard it from a friend who was there at the crime scene."

 

"Bullshit, a computer didn't kill her." Jean gave a sniff of the air, "I don’t smell anything, but you have to be on something. Besides, that shit is supposed to be classified.”  
  
Connie groaned, “Whatever man, hey Sash and-”  
  
“Kirschtein!”  
  
Both men flinched at the shrill voice that tugged at their eardrums, a voice they both knew fairly well, and one Connie was especially familiar with. They turned and found their boss standing in his office doorway a few feet away, his usual brown suit hanging loose; he must have been out drinking last night.  
  
He took a step forward and Connie waved good bye to Jean. “I’m getting out of here before he figures it out. Good luck bro!”   
  
Jean glared at his friend as he booked it out of the office. Before he figures what out? If he caught flack for some prank of Connie’s again…

 

Jean sighed and walked to the man’s office, adjusting his tie so his boss couldn’t say anything about that at least, even if the drunkard always stumbled in to work with his tie around his waist.  
  
“Yes, Mr. Coldwell?”  
  
Could he get any more obvious? At least Connie had found some drug that didn’t carry the scent or brought breath mints, but Mr. Coldwell could use a whole thing of Tic-tacs right now with all the booze on his breath.  
  
“You’re a good worker.”  
  
“Yes, sir?” Not quite what he had expected.  
  
“And you’re always here on time and presentable.”  
  
“Yes…” Where was he going with this?  
  
“You’ve been with this company for several years now.”  
  
He’d been here for as long as he could remember, and he’d barely moved up from the mailroom a year ago.  
  


“You’re a reliable worker.”  
  
Wait. Was...was this a promotion? He straightened his back as much he could until he could feel the pain shooting down his spine, definitely not used to this level of posture.  
  
Mr. Coldwell froze there, looking at Jean but not saying a word.  
  
It was unnerving, and Jean only let it go on a minute or two before he asked, “Mr. Coldwell? You were making a point?” Or at least he hoped he had been.

 

The man stared a moment longer before clearing his throat then shooting a lopsided grin at Jean. “I can feel the headache setting in, and it’s gonna be a bitch. So this is what’s going to happen.” He turned to his desk and jerked open a drawer to his left. He rifled through a mess of papers to gather a few loose pages and present them to Jean.

 

Jean raised an eyebrow as he took the papers and scanned over them. “What is this?”  
  
“Numbers,” Mr. Coldwell slumped down into his chair, “for a report. That I need you to write for me. The email is attached with what is expected. I need it on my desk tomorrow morning at 7:00 am.”  
  
The more Jean rifled through the pages, the worse it got; this was going to take him all night if he started on it the moment he got home. “I can’t do this, I have a huge placement test tomorrow and-”  
  
“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear,” Mr. Coldwell lifted his head, eyebrows fierce, “I have to turn that into my boss tomorrow at 8:00. If you don’t bring that paper in by 7:00, I will make your experience here a living hell and drag you down with me. Now do you get it?” He rubbed his temples before he rested his head on the desk.  
  
“You can’t do that!” Jean slammed the papers down on the desk, “I hear carbs are good for hangovers, you should try it and write this paper yourself because I can’t.”  
  
Mr. Coldwell glanced up again. “Mr. Kirschtein, I could have you fired on the spot.”  
  
“Then who would write your paper?”   
  
“I’d find another.”  
  
Jean bit his lip and fought the lump in his throat. What the fuck was this guy’s problem? Sure, he’d been a bit of a dick before but this extreme now? He said so himself that Jean was a great worker...Was this really that huge a thing and he was just desperate? He internally shook his head at the mess before him.

  
As much as he hated the job, he needed it and it was a step on the ladder towards his dream career. Like hell would he let this dickwad take that chance from him. He groaned, palm pressed firmly against his forehead. “Alright, I’ll have it on your desk by 8:00 am tomorrow morning.”  
  
Mr. Coldwell didn’t bother to lift his head only murmured into the woodwork, “Good choice, you can go now.”  
  
Not that he needed his blessing, Jean was out of that office before the sentence had finished and off to his workspace where the next four hours would be far too long for his liking.

 

When 5:00 came around, he shoved up out of his seat and over to punch in his timecard with speed that Flash would envy. He almost pulled it back too soon and jumped when he found Connie right behind him.  
  


“Jesus fuck, Con!”  
  
Connie slid by him to officially clock out for the night as well, asking over his shoulder, “Sash and me are going to hit the arcade, you game?”   
  
“Can’t, I’m busy,” the words took a few seconds before they tumbled out of his mouth; he really didn’t want to do this. If it were just the placement test he wouldn’t mind, he already had the material down pat, but that damn report…  
  
“Got a hot date?” A third voice piped in before Jean felt something weigh down his shoulder.  
  
“Yeah, with my computer.” He shrugged off Sasha’s arm and picked up his pace--the sooner he got home, the sooner he could finish the report.  
  
“They didn’t mean that literally by the D drive, Jean.”

 

He didn’t even know which Wonder Twin had said that and he didn’t want to know. He shouldered through the others streaming out on their own ways home. “I have a report to write.”  
  
He lost them in the lobby. Thank fucking God, because Jean didn’t need them bugging him and wasting anymore time. He made a beeline home, not slowing down until he slammed the door shut and locked it behind him.

 

Jean stumbled into the kitchen to grab a few bags of chips. He jerked the fridge door open and snatched several Monster cans out the side door before the door even fully opened. He crammed it all into the crook of his arm best he could then went down the hall to his bedroom/office/study space/whatever else. The plastic bags plopped down and knocked over one of the Monsters as Jean turned on the dinosaur of a computer beside them, then righted the can.

  
“C’mon...hurry up and start.” It really wasn’t actually all that slow, but when you have 9 hours work ahead of you and still need time to sleep and commute the hour to work then head off to a test which is two hours the other way, every second counts.12 hours for work and travel. 13 hours until he had to leave.

 

The desktop finally loaded and Jean sat down quickly in the chair, legitimately afraid he might have scorched something. Finding all was as it should be, he placed the papers before him, the numbers and words already scrambling in his head and the keys on the keyboard melting into one another. This was going to be a long night.

 

As he worked fervishly away at the computer, he repeated to himself “Do it for the job” until he was mouthing it on auto-pilot, his fingers moving like rockets clicking and surfing the internet for the numbers he needed, hand reaching out for the desk to crunch some numbers to double check or reaching for a bag of chips.  He wasn’t sure whether the shaking of his hands was due to all the junk food and Monster in his system or if it was from his need to pee, only that if they stayed like this he wouldn’t need to buy any more vibrators because he’d be set for life. A sick joke, yes, but he was nearing on Monster 5 and Cheetos 3.

 

No, it was definitely the second one. Jean crossed his legs but that didn’t help any at all except to further remind him as he put pressure. He stole a glance at the clock, it was….damn. It was 3:45, and he was almost finished. He didn’t have to leave until 6:00 and reasoned that a quick bathroom break wouldn’t hurt, so he went to unleash Niagra Falls.  
  
He returned, feeling a thousand times better without all that pressure and sat down in the chair, ready to finish typing when the screen caught his attention.   
  
Google displayed a search that he never remembered typing in, in fact, he had never seen or heard of the man’s name written across the page, nor had he seen the smiling, freckled face that looked back at him.  
  


“Marco Bodt?”

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Marco Bodt ran a hand through his short hair, the evenly parted strands sliding right through. He reached for his cup of tea with the other hand and allowed the right to return to its place typing despite the cramps that left him holding ring finger and pinky together.

 

“Get it to my office by 6:00 am tomorrow kid, and I might look at it.”  
  
When he had told the editor that he had an almost finished manuscript, Marco might have stretched it a bit, as it still needed a hundred pages or more. He hadn’t expected it to all be so soon, and especially not to have received the deadline 8 hours before it was due. Thankfully, he had a lot of tea stocked up, rocket wrists, and needed two more pages when the time came in at 3:44. The office was just down the block so he could leave at 5:50 and still make it in time. If he did a sprint on these last few pages, he could at least get 2 hours sleep before starting his day.

 

Marco chugged the rest of the piping hot tea down, wincing once as the heat tore at his throat. He placed the cup on the side and started typing again. He got a few lines done before he sat back, unable to find a specific word he needed. No big problem though; he clicked to open another tab and brought up the Google search engine, typing his query “what is that one flap of cloth in front called on a knight?” He hit enter then waited for the page to load. 3:46, still more than enough time to finish.

 

The entire page refreshed. As the results came in Marco moved to click the first link, index finger poised above the mouse when he noticed that the results included a Facebook page, MySpace page, Twitter, and some school in the northern part of the state. They were all linked to the same person, somebody Marco hoped he had never met because otherwise he was completely blanking on them.

 

“Who are you, Jean Kirschtein and why are you showing up on my search?”

 

  
  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oddly enough, Marco could see the man in far clearer detail than he could his characters, his own brainchildren. Jean Kirschtein, two-toned hair, amber eyes, long face, smug grin, he could almost just reach out and feel the face as if it was actually there - but of course Jean Kirschtein was not there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It only took me 2 months to update. Personal record achieved.  
> Note: small elevator scare, and mini panic attack kinda? but nothing really too in detail or for too long  
> oh! and Alcohol mention

Marco was tempted to investigate this man, going so far as to click the first link, but then slammed “ctrl” and “w” to close out the window. None of his search even remotely linked to this Jean,  or shouldn’t be, unless the man was an expert on medieval knights’ armor, but it wasn’t a risk Marco could take, especially not with his manuscript at risk. He brought up his anti-virus program and started a full system scan, his hands in his lap too afraid to keep them anywhere near the treacherous device. He glanced at the clock, 3:49, the green progress bar like a needle in his side, a painful reminder of what yet must be done.

He got up several times to stretch or jog in place, sometimes to make a bathroom run and splash ice cold water on his face. There was only so much that tea could do, even less when your body is accustomed to it or when it is all you’ve been drinking and left you dehydrated. As dizziness settled, or rather, rampaged in Marco inched his way down the hallway to the kitchen, and stumbled back at the light that poured forward when he opened the refrigerator. Hand shielding his eyes, he scanned the shelves before grabbing a Gatorade off the bottom one.  
At some point, Marco had gotten back to his room, finished the last few pages, spell checked it, and hit print. Exactly when that had happened and when he had managed to crawl into bed, he wasn’t sure, the last of his memories extended to that moment grabbing the Gatorade. Come to think of it, he couldn’t find his Gatorade anywhere as he blinked away sleep and scanned the room. What he did find, however, was his clock flashing 5:57 in big bold numbers. Fuck.

He scrambled around  looking for his phone without much luck until fortunately it started ringing. Marco listened to find where the sound was coming from - by the door! He dived for the floor, scooped it up and answered it all in one move.

“Hello?”

“Marco-”  
“Ymir? Ymir! Where are you?” he sat back on his butt to right the world before he stood up and headed to collect his work from the printer.  
“Where are you?”  
Marco skimmed through the pages to make sure they were all in order, shuffling them together and sliding them into the folder to the left. “I know, I overslept, it was a weird, long night. Could you, um, “ he paused to press the phone to his shoulder, “could you keep your boss busy? I need like, fifteen minutes.”  
“How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”  
He rushed to his closet, pressing the speaker button as he pulled on his slacks and grabbed for his nicest jacket. “I don’t know, but you’re you, I’m sure you’ll figure something out.  I’d appreciate it and it would really help a lot. I just need to brush my hair and then run over there, promise.Thank you.”  
The faintest trace of a groan escaped the phone before he hung it up and strided over to the bathroom. He knocked over several bottles with a clatter as he snatched his brush; the bristles scraped his forehead as he ran it through his hair. He swore he still felt the sting as he grabbed his folder and sprinted out the door and down to the office, not stopping until he reached the elevator.  He slammed the up button with his fist then allowed himself a moment to relax until the doors opened, only they didn’t.

In his rush, he had failed to notice the sound of something heavy pounding against metal.

“It’s stuck.”  
Marco turned to face the voice behind him, a nondescript man slouched in his seat at the main desk. “Sorry?”  
The man sighed, exaggerating it with a further arch in his back. “The elevator. It’s stuck. The boss and some insane freckled lady are in there.”

Marco’s eyebrows shot up, “Are they okay? Well, they can’t be too okay if they’re stuck in there, but- Is somebody coming to help them out?”

The clerk spun in his chair to face the computer, typing away at the keyboard. “No,” he said, eyes glued on the screen.  
“What? Why not? We should call somebody, it doesn’t sound very safe in there with all that pounding,” Marco came around to the front desk.

Some MMORPG Marco didn’t know filled the computer screen as he peered to see what the man was working on. Ymir and her boss were locked in an elevator and this man knew. Shouldn’t he be more concerned and doing something about it? He furrowed his eyebrows and opened his mouth to protest.  
“Look, the stairs are to the right of the elevator. Wouldya just take your shit up there already?” the clerk spoke before Marco could lecture him. “Before the rest of us get in a shit ton of trouble.”

This must be all part of Ymir’s plan.

Ymir...please don’t get fired over this…

“Thank you!” Marco shouted as he dashed for the stairs, barely catching the “Pleasure’s mine, trust me” when he reached them, taking the steps two at a time until he reached the third floor. He rested his left hand on the doorframe, chest expanding and contracting with his labored breathing, pace gradually slowing down until it was calm once again. He ran his tongue over his lips, wetting the parched skin as he checked the map on the wall. Office 3007. Down the hall, first door on his left. He made it to the door just as he heard the elevator door ding then open followed by the sound of something slamming hard into the floor.

Marco peeked around the corner and caught Ymir’s attention who mouthed “you owe me big time”, to which he nodded at and mouthed back “thank you”. He returned back to the door and waited there holding his manuscript guarded against his chest.

“So you did show up.” The man looked pale and Marco could see the sheen of sweat still on his face.

Ymir, just what did you do?

“Yes, sir, I’ve been waiting here the last 20 minutes - are you alright?”

He shook it off, “I’m fine. Just hand me the manuscript and I’ll give you a call.”

He didn’t have Marco’s number so he questioned that, but Ymir worked here and said she’d keep an eye out, not to mention that this man looked like he could use some time to relax to himself. Marco handed over the folder, thanked him for his time, and then left the building to answer the becking call of his bed.   
Face met pillow and it was an instant knock out as sleep washed over him.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
  
Jean Kirschtein patted himself on the back, reciting his speech for an award. What award? He wasn’t sure but he’d be damned if he didn’t deserve one for not only pulling an all nighter and navigating the bus system without ending up in another state, but also for walking into the testing room and acing it. They had been given two hours for it and he had it finished in one, had enough time to double check all answers, and had strutted out of the room, glowing with each step as he headed to the bus stop.

That glow began to shrink when he returned home, limbs dragging him down like anchors into the depths of unconsciousness, last night catching up to him. He welcomed it, eyes closed, and anticipated the colorful visions of slumber, only to find images of last night replaying across his closed eyelids.

Marco Bodt. Facebook. Twitter. Writer’s Hovel. WritersRus. Freckled face. Warm brown eyes like liquid fire.

Jean had tried clicking one of the links, but as quickly as the page had come, it had gone, leaving nothing but a blurred pixel trail leading to the home button. Damned old computer, he had to restart it to get rid of the irritating trail obscuring his view.

But why had it been there? He gave it a moment’s thought before he grit his teeth and picked up the landline and dialed. The line picked up after the fourth ring.

“Herhlur?”  
“Which one of you shits did it?”

He heard Sasha mumbling in the background on the other line followed by a yawn. “Ish Jwahn.”  
“Hwoi Jwahn,” he heard Sasha’s voice call out.

“Hey Sash, which of you two fucked with my computer last night? It took thirty minutes for it to clear.” He switched the phone to the other hand, counting to five and biting back his irritation.

The two of them exchanged half asleep confused grunts before Connie answered, “Whot’re you takking bout?”

“Call me back when you wake up.” He placed the receiver back and leaned against the counter. If they gave him another virus…

He didn’t have the money to fix that, hell, he hardly had the money to avoid eviction every month from his shithole of an apartment. That was the reason why the placement test was so important to him; the higher level math he was placed in, the less classes he would have to take, and in turn, the less money spent. Thank fucking God.

The weight of drowsiness gone, Jean figured he might as well make himself something to eat. He scrounged around in the fridge, managing a tortilla and a plastic container of butter. He laid the tortilla over the stove, turned on the burner and let it warm up a few seconds. The smell of burning tortilla served as his signal to turn the burner off and after twenty seconds of waiting for it to cool down, he pulled it off. He had knife poised when the phone rang.

“Yo, Jean!”  
He placed the knife down and tried his question again. “Which one of you did it?”

“Did what? When?”

“4:00 this morning. My computer. I left to use the restroom then there’s this search I sure as fuck didn’t make then my computer glitched. If there’s a virus on it again, whoever did it is paying to have it fixed.”

The wonder duo exchanged confused chatter then Sasha answered this time, “We weren’t at your house last night.”

“Bullshit, I know-”  
“We were at McDonald’s last night, or were until we got thrown out.”  
“How the fuck do you get thrown out of McDonald’s?”  
“You try and steal my French fries.”

Thwp! Jean slapped his hand to his forehead. Those two…”Well if it wasn’t you then who was it?”

“What was the search of?” At least Connie was getting to business now.

“Some guy, Marco Bodt. Heard of him?”  
“So you did have a hot date!”  
Jean didn’t let that last any longer than that sentence ,slamming the phone down, face red. From what he could remember, the guy didn’t look that bad, but that was beside the point. Leave it to those two. He left his tortilla in the kitchen and trudged into his room with a groan, eyeing the computer several minutes before he slid into the chair and started it up.

An hour later he found himself completely immersed in a variety of online games when an IM popped up.

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : Hey Jean, how did the test go?

 

He x’d out the window with his game knowing it would lag with the IM up, and replied back.

 

 **jkir$chtein** : hey armin.

 

 **jkir$chtein** : great. I think I nailed it.

 

There was a few minute’s pause in the conversation before he saw the “...” that signified Armin was typing a reply.

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : so….how was your date?

 

 **jkir$chtein** : what the fuck did they tell you

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : Connie said you had a date last night with a man named...Merko Butt?

 

 **jkir$chtein** : …….

 

 **jkir$chtein** : he can’t even get the name right

 

 **jkir$chtein** : Marco. Marco Bodt.

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : What happened last night?

 

 **jkir$chtein** : I wasn’t on a date

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : I understand that Jean, what happened?

 

 **jkir$chtein** : I was doing this report for my boss, and I leave to take a piss and when I come back this search is there

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : Of Marco Bodt?

 

 **jkir$chtein** : yeah

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : I don’t know of any Marco Bodt’s, or any Marco’s for that matter.

 

 **jkir$chtein** : same  
  


 **jkir$chtein** : it’s probably just a freak one time thing

 

They continuously switched topics,  and Jean managed to forget about the incident by the time they discussed last week’s episode of Once Upon a Time. It was a one time thing anyway, nothing to worry about and his computer was working just fine.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~  
THUNK!  
Marco woke with a start, his head ever so politely greeting the headboard.  
         “How rude of me not to have given it a proper good morning earlier, hopefully this one suffices,” he mused to himself as he slid forward then sat up, rubbing at his forehead until the pain began to subside then eyed the cause of his sudden waking.  
Snickering at the base of the bed, Ymir held something in her hand, glancing from it then to Marco before she tossed it at him.  
“Nah, the copy is better.”  
        Marco flung his hands out, the bottle landing in his cup hands, red liquid inside sloshing about until it had settled. He turned it over in his hands until he spotted the trademark G for Gatorade, raspberry flavored, in fact the very one that he had lost this morning. “The copy?”  
She stepped back, right hand spread out and pointed at the bathroom.

It took him all of ten seconds until his eyebrows shot up, disappearing into his hair. He traced the indents curving along his face, a mockery of his efforts. Marco saw the shit eating grin spread across his freckled friend’s face as her tall frame entered into the mirror’s image.  
“Please tell me that this wasn’t here when I met your boss.”  
It was more of a plea than any sort of statement; while the lines might not be completely fresh he knew they couldn’t have been just from when he got home. He turned around, shoulders slumped as he trudged back to the bed and buried his face in his hands with a groan.  “Well, I certainly left a lasting impression, didn’t I?”  
“Was that a fucking pun, Bodt?”   
Marco peeked out from between his hands and swerved left to dodge the incoming pillow. It hit the floor with a light fwhp, and he felt a light grin spread across his face. “Maybe.” He leaned into the light shove with a small laugh while he scooted over to make room for Ymir.  
  


“Tell me again why I was stuck in a metal box with my boss pounding against the door freaking out, again?”  
  
“I overslept.”  
  
“No shit. Now what is it?”

 

Marco’s right hand rose instinctively, index finger resting on his nose. “It’s just-”

 

“Just what?” Ymir’s stare was relentless.

 

He switched his finger for his hand  and scratched the base of his neck then shook his head. “No, no, it’s nothing. You’d just think I’m crazy, maybe I am cra-”

 

“I have the whacko shack on speed dial, Bodt,* now what is it?” Her look read bored to an unfamiliar eye but Marco knew he wasn’t going to get anywhere avoiding it and sighed.  
  


“Last night I brought up a search for some last minute information on medieval armor and the page loaded this man’s name instead. I don’t know the man or even remember the name, the search results didn’t even have anything to do with medieval armor. It was as if the computer just had a mind of its own.”

 

Ymir sat silently for a minute before she barked a laugh and reached over to slap Marco on the back. “You’re right,” she managed between laughter, “ you’re crazier than I thought.”  
  


Marco’s lip tugged downward and he opened his mouth to speak only to be interrupted. “You smell like a week worth’s of sweat, go take a shower.”

 

One sniff reaffirmed Ymir’s words, Marco wrinkled his nose and lowered his arm. “I probably should take a shower; I’m sure it must have just been some fluke or a virus. It’s working fine now.”  He headed over to the bathroom then paused in the doorframe and looked back, “Do you want me to walk you back to your place?”  
  


Legs propped up on the footboard, Ymir had already invited herself on to the bed, stretched out and arms behind her head. “Nah, I’ll wait here, you still owe me pizza and I’m claiming that debt tonight.”

 

Marco had promised Ymir pizza and a beer if she managed to get her boss to give him a chance and he had, after all, put her in a situation that if found out, might cost her her job. He nodded and tossed a towel over his shoulder. “I should be out in forty-five minutes, there’s soda in the fridge if you want.”

 

He undressed quickly then waited, hand extended to test the water until it had gone from Antarctica to just above the equator then stepped in and let the hot stream and steam consume him. He stood and rolled his shoulders, stretching out his sore muscles and allowing himself the relief of the steam that built up, head tossed back.

 

Normally, Marco found himself constructing plotlines, developing characters, analyzing relationships of characters in  stories both old and new, and for the most part, it started off that way. An antagonist who worked in a garden center with a weakness for caffeine, a protagonist who was held together with a smile that was coming undone, another antagonist who had once been a friend who sold the antihero to the other antagonist for plant feed. As the antihero was whisked away in a group of mixmatched knights armed with miscellaneous blades and weapons to prevent their beloved friend from becoming mulch. Those were all the basics to a new story he had formulated in his head the other day as he had hacked away at his keyboard, but then another character, one far less known intruded on the adventure.

 

Oddly enough, Marco could see the man in far clearer detail than he could his characters, his own brainchildren. Jean Kirschtein, two-toned hair, amber eyes, long face, smug grin, he could almost just reach out and feel the face as if it was actually there - but of course Jean Kirschtein was not there.

 

For all Marco knew, it could all be a hoax; this man could be some character from a show. Yeah, that was it, he was just some random character, maybe he really was a knight. That made sense for him to show up in the search then. Marco let those thoughts wash away and down into the drain like the conditioner as he rinsed his hair.

 

Ymir’s snores reached Marco’s ear the moment he turned off the water and when he entered his bedroom, he only confirmed it.  
  


“Ymir?”

 

No response. Right, she wasn’t the lightest of sleepers. He stepped towards the bed, hand extended to jostle her shoulder lightly, but she started before he could. Marco jumped back, hand pressed to his collarbone, eyes wide open.

 

“Ready?” she asked.

 

Ymir might have been, but he certainly wasn’t.

 

Throughout all the years they had known each other, he thought she wouldn’t be able to throw any curveballs at him, but she never failed. Even though he had spent the majority of the night trying to excuse her behavior (which he suspected stemmed from the blonde waitress), it hadn’t been a bad night at all and as he dropped Ymir off at her place and made the couple minutes’ walk back home, he found himself already missing the night’s fun. So much, in fact, that he pulled out his computer chair, prepared to bring up Facebook and plan something bigger this time. It had been a while since he hung out with Bertholdt, Reiner, and Annie.

 

The smile on his face vanished and a frown replaced it. There was no need to click anything as Facebook was already up, the familiar blue in a banner across the top of the page. Near the top as well, beneath the Facebook cover on the timeline, was the same name, Jean Kirschtein.

 

Panic roiled to the top. He hadn’t done this. Was this really some elaborate virus? His computer couldn’t, not with the file on it. He hadn’t been able to transfer all the files to a disc or USB, either.

 

His hands flew to his forehead, thumbs rubbing his cheeks as the tips of the rest of his fingers pressed into his skull.

 

Breathe easy.

 

Think.

 

The computer screen wasn’t acting up any further like it might if there was something in it, just- relax. He exhaled with the “ahh” in relax and allowed his fingers to slide down.

 

There weren’t any popups on the screen, and other than the fact that he didn’t remember ever searching for Jean on Facebook, nothing else was amiss. Besides, somebody else could have easily been in the room and-

 

Ymir!

 

She lingered behind a moment before they had left for the pizzeria earlier; she must have done it. He reached for his pocket to grab his phone, but stopped when he remembered how late it was.

 

Besides, with all the beer she had consumed, and if Marco valued his life he wouldn’t disturb Ymir until one in the afternoon at the very earliest, and even that was pushing it. He could just ask her after she had gotten some rest, something he should be getting to as well given the time on the computer. He would have gladly heeded slumber’s sweet call, but he couldn’t hear it, mind and body awake with the most recent event.

Well, he had come to the computer to chat and set up a time to meet, so he might as well get to it.

  


**jkir$chtein** : Armin. He sent me a friend request.

 

Jean sent the reply and sat back in his computer chair, his hand poised above the mouse as his gaze shifted again to the small one in the top right corner of the screen. The mysterious Marco Bodt had sent him a friend request. How did he know him, how had he found him, and what did he want? His every urge told him to accept it and to ask him what he wanted, but his better judgement led him to sending the message to Armin.

 

He scrolled through his newsfeed as he waited for the messenger chat to flash at the bottom of the screen; it said that he was online, but Armin had a habit of forgetting to sign off or getting distracted by some article. It’d be a lot easier if Armin would just get a Facebook instead of the old as balls Yahoo! messenger.

 

Nothing unusual on his feed - Mikasa had won some tournament, Sasha and Connie had posted selfies with orange wedge smiles, and oh, hey, Mina had gone on a date with Thomas. He wouldn’t have pictured those two together, but -

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : Who?

 

 **jkir$chtein** :  Marco. He found me on Facebook.

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** :  I wouldn’t add him if I were you, Jean.

 

 **jkir$chtein** : what if it’s some punk? I gotta set ‘em straight so they’ll leave me alone

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : It’s very likely it could be somebody, but it could be the same somebody behind the search engine murders.

 

Jean paused, hands above the keyboard. That was true.

 

 **jkir$chtein** : I’m not dead yet

 

If it was them, they sure were taking their time about it. Wasn’t it all done in the same night?

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : There isn’t enough evidence gathered, and we don’t have any witness accounts.

 

The red one stayed ever in the corner of Jean’s vision poking at him, that one that was God knows who, but he knew that they were messing with the wrong person.

 

 **Captain Armin Arlertxander** : Don’t entertain them , Jean. It is highly likely it’s some random person trying to get their kicks out of toying with you, but you shouldn’t do anything that might act as a catalyst to -

 

He didn’t have time for this; he’d take the chances. The walls were thin enough that any of his neighbors could hear him and call for help, and right now this person was wasting his time. It was time to end this. Jean clicked out of the conversation and hit accept. The page refreshed, and brought him to the man’s timeline; it glitched and an im popped up in his timeline cover.

 

 **Marco Bodt** : Hello, Jean. I’ve been waiting to talk to you.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, not too much happened this chapter, but it accomplished what needed to be accomplished. Maybe comment? I'd love to hear your thoughts, fave parts, fave lines?  
> The glorious Ymir whacko shack on speed dial line is courtesy of GhostinTheTimeMachine.  
> (I'll finish bolding when I get home)

**Author's Note:**

> I got the term rocket wrists from GhostintheTimeMachine :D  
> Meaning really quick writing/typing.
> 
> Sorry the end is real lame;;;
> 
> But!  
> I'm going to be working on more and I WILL get the next chapter up or at least done, before the end of Thanksgiving break. So there's that~


End file.
